


The Weekend

by TriDom



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Good Dad Sheriff, M/M, Minor Danny Mahealani/Stiles Stilinski, Not between Peter and Stiles, Prostitution, Rape, Stilinski Family Feels, addict!Stiles, excessive cussing, meth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 18:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3456794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriDom/pseuds/TriDom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles's bank account is in the red. He's running low on his stash. His dad is getting sick of giving him money. He's sick of asking. So he puts up an ad and wades through the perverts to find someone he wouldn't mind sticking their dick in him for a little cash. He never expected to open his door to Peter Hale. </p><p>Peter may be slightly OoC, but I could see it from him, so I went with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weekend

**Author's Note:**

> This follows cannon to an extent. Everyone that's a werewolf is one in the story, but no PTSD Stiles. I like using that as much as the next person, but that's not the case here. Sometimes good people make shitty choices for no other reason than because they could. So that's Stiles.

On Wednesday evening, Stiles jogged over to the silver Corolla. He slipped and caught himself on the door handle, pulling it open and falling into the passenger seat. Danny laughed behind the wheel.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” Stiles said, pulling the door closed. Then he leaned over the console and pulled Danny to him by the back of his neck.

His mouth tasted like cheese and Ranch dressing. Stiles’s stomach growled quietly. Danny smiled and pushed back his hood, dusting his shoulders.

“You’re covered in snow. How long were you out there?”

“Not long. It doesn’t matter,” Stiles said, putting at the console and kissing the side of Danny’s long neck.

He smelled like Calvin Klein the way his room always had in high school. The alcohol of it was bitter as Stiles licked his skin the way he knew he liked. Danny groaned softly. It’s been two-ish years since they were a thing, but his fingers still pushed around Stiles’s hair like they used to as he kissed lower.

Danny laughed when Stiles climbed over the center console and kicked the gear shift into the drive. They almost hit a No Parking sign and Stiles lost it against his shoulder. Danny’s breath smelled like beer and weed. His mouth watered. It felt like his blood was itching. He was fucking exhausted.

His head hit the roof and Danny’s knees hit the steering wheel even with the seat scooted all the way back and reclined. The windows were cold when Stiles reached out for leverage while they ground against each other.

In the end, Stiles sat back in his seat to lean over and take Danny’s dick in his mouth. Spit clung to his silky soft black underwear in his Abercrombie jeans. After, Stiles took a bottle of luke-warm Coke from the center console and swished away the taste of spooge in his throat.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Danny said, putting himself back into his jeans.

“I know,” Stiles said, laughing slightly as he looked out of the hazy windows at the street lights. Condensation broke the orange glare with hyper clearness. It felt like his skin was coming alive and crawling. His head was fucking killing him. He could sleep for years.

Danny leaned up and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a prescription bottle. He never had it in baggies like most people. He said it was so dogs couldn’t smell it. Stiles never told him that the dogs could smell it anyway.

“It isn’t much, but it’s what my cousin had,” Danny said.

Stiles took it and dumped the white crystals into his hand.

“No, thanks, man. You know I’d pay, but shit’s tight.”

“I know. You didn’t have to do anything for it, just so you know.”

“You’re the best,” Stiles said, making himself smile and clap him on the back.

His skin was fucking crawling off. His head hurt. Katy Perry was making him want to blow his goddamn brains out.

“Do you want to go get something to eat? You look like you could stand to gain a few,” Danny said.

“Nah.”

“I’ll pay?”

“Aw you’re sweet,” Stiles said, making himself laugh as he dug his fingernails into his inner arm. “Really, I’ve got to get up early for work.”

He couldn't remember if he told Danny he was fired. He didn’t care. He leaned over and kissed him again. Danny caught the side of his neck and kissed him deeper. His warm thumbs felt like sandpaper on the dried skin of his face. When he pulled away his deep brown eyes were black like a shark’s.

“Come get a bite with me.”

“I really can’t,” Stiles said, making himself laugh. “I’m crashing like a motherfucker.”

“You can smoke in here.”

“No. I’m not smoking in your car. It stinks and cops drive by a lot.”

“Cops never used to come out.”

“Yeah, it’s a recent development,” Stiles said, wiping beneath his running nose.

“Okay, then I’ll come up.”

“Danny-.”

But Danny was already getting out. They walked across the dark street to Stiles’s apartment building. A few men’s voices echoed down from in front of a mechanic’s shop. If they’d seen them in the car, Stiles would be spitting out his teeth in a pool of blood. His hands shook as he tried to get his key in the front door.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Stiles said as he went to the bedroom through the kitchen.

He grabbed the plate he cut on from the bedside table and dumped out the crystals with the ruminants of a few days ago. The razor clicked quietly. When it was packed, he watched the orange of his lighter color the bottom of the clear bowl as white smoke crept up the stem and into his mouth.

Twenty minutes later, they were in Danny’s car in the parking lot of McDonalds as Stiles tore into his McDouble. The taste of Coke was like little pops of color on his tongue as Danny turned up the radio and they sang in fake falsetto to Poker Face.

“We danced to this at prom, right?” Stiles asked.

Danny looked down at his cup and smiled as he sucked from the straw. “Yeah we did.”

“Love this stupid song,” Stiles said, tapping his fingers on the door as he took another bite and groaned. “God this is good.”

When they were back in front of his apartment, Stiles leaned down to look in Danny’s driver’s side window. Heated air from the vents blew against his cheek as he leaned on his arm on the seal.

“It was good to see you,” he said.

“Yeah,” Danny said, smiling slightly.

“What’s up?” Stiles asked.

“Nothing.”

“We were together two years. I know your fake smile,” Stiles said, smiling. The one that got Danny to answer him, even when he was pissy.

“Just take care of yourself,” Danny said, laying his large warm hand on Stiles’s arm and squeezing. 

“You're starting to sound like my dad.”

Danny laughed and squeezed his arm again. “Okay. Go home. You’re going to freeze to death out here.”

“Alright,” Stiles said, leaning on the door. He leaned in closer and kissed Danny’s cheek. “Thanks for dinner and the other stuff. You really helped me out.”

Danny gave that fake smile again. “I’ll call next time I’m in town.”

“Yeah do that.”

Stiles patted the roof before he started walking back to his apartment. Danny’s headlights washed over the brick as he turned around. The sound of his music echoed in the alleys as Stiles pulled open the door and walked into the building. He had forgotten him before he locked his apartment door.

 

The next afternoon, Stiles flipped through his mail on the kitchen counter. Bills, bills, junk. He scratched into his cheek as he picked up the red envelope from the electric company. He fell onto the torn cushion of the barstool as he looked down at what he owed. What he had owed for almost two months.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted under his breath.

He shouldn’t have gone to the party at Aiden’s last weekend. He spent over $200 that weekend. The $200 he had left from his job at the bank that he got canned from. He inhaled deeply through his nose before he dug his phone from his sleep pants.

He got up and started to pace before the phone even started to ring.

“Dad?”

“Stiles, how are you?”

“Good, good,” he said.

He choked down a cough against his raw throat and picked up his water. The nick on the rim caught his lip.

“You?” he asked when he cleared his throat.

“I’m fine,” John said.

“Good, glad to hear it, awesome,” he said, drumming his palm on his leg. “So, I was wondering, if maybe, I know this is a lot, and I just asked, but-.”

“Spit it out.”

“I’m short on electric. I know you just helped with insurance.”

“I paid your insurance. And your water and gas last month.”

“I know, but I just fucked, sorry, messed up some budgeting and the Jeep needed a new alternator, and I had to-.”

“How much?”

“$250? I could come pick it up if you can help or whatever.”

“Give me your account number with the electric company. I’ll give them a check.”

“No, Dad, it’s fine. I’ll just give them cash.”

“I’m not giving you cash, Stiles.”

“Okay. Alright, whatever’s easiest.”

“The number?”

“Oh, yeah, right,” Stiles said, going to the coffee table, pushing aside solo cups and Dorito bags. He kicked over a two-liter of Mountain Dew missing its cap. “Fuck, son of a bitch,” he said under his breath, grabbing it and trying to find the cap as it blurted out green onto the dirt ground carpet.

“Stiles, just call me back when you find it,” his dad said tiredly.

“No, no, it’s right here, somewhere,” he said. “Dad?” he pulled away the phone and looked at the busted screen, “Dad?”

The call time blinked at him before the screen went dark as Mountain Dew soaked into the knees of his pants.

 

That night, Stiles sat on his laptop hooked up to his neighbor’s wifi. Malia laid across his bed with her head near his thigh. She rolled over and crept her fingertips up his leg.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” he said, not looking away from his bank account page.

-$275

“It isn’t going to get any better if you keep staring at it,” she said.

“How the fuck do you not starve to death?”

Malia laughed, her long hair moving over her shoulder. Darkish, goldey brown. He ran his fingers through it to feel if it was soft on his fingers. She slapped his hand when he caught a tangle.

“You know what I do.”

“What if I wanted to do it?”

“Whatever.”

“Seriously. I’m sick of my dad having to pay all my bills. I’m 21 fucking years old. I should be able to pay my shit.”

“Really?” she asked, looking up at him, biting her lower lip slightly.

She managed to make it look slightly innocent when Stiles knew she’d had more than her fair share of dicks between her lips. His included. 

He shrugged. “I sucked Danny’s dick for some last night.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s different. Danny’s like a lovesick puppy after you. He probably didn’t even ask you to.”

“No. Not exactly.”

“Like not even at all,” she said, then she pulled away his laptop. “Do you really want to? I can put your ad up and word it right. If you get creeps, just don’t do it.”

“How much can I make?”

She looked him over with a little nod. “I’d pay $100 for you to suck my dick.”

Stiles laughed and watched her pull up a seedy dating website. He laughed with Malia while they smoked her weed and he took a few hits from the crystal Danny gave him. He still had half the bottle, though. That’d get him through a few days. More than that if he was careful. He was thinking of how long it would last when he smiled for the picture Malia took of him. He watched her crop out his face and upload it to his profile. He didn’t read it when she offered the computer to him. He watched the bars as it uploaded until it said complete.

 

 

Stiles slept for shit that night. Some of it was the crystal, but more of it was how twitchy he got when his phone vibrated. It was mostly game updates, but still. He was beating a level on a colorful game that all ran together when he got his first message.

BigDaddy13: _got any more pics, gorgeous?_

His name made Stiles’s skin crawl. Physically. He dug his fingernails into his thigh and clawed at the creeping as he deleted the message. Before the sun rose he had three more. He deleted all of them with their nasty fucking come-ons.

It slowed down in the morning hours when the bastards were probably taking their kids to school. It didn’t stop though. He was checking a message from an okay seeming guy when he ate his first spoonful of cereal at the bar. The taste of sour milk slammed into his tastebuds. He made it to the sink before he vomited.

He was sitting in the living room with Scott around noon, passing a bong back and forth as a Batman cartoon played on his small TV, when his phone buzzed with another new message. He grunted internally before he saw the man’s picture. God what a fucking body. A little older, but nothing was sagging.

IATA: _How much would you charge for the weekend?_

Good grammar. Straight to business. Stiles looked down at the text message while Scott talked on the phone to Kira beside him. Reflux burned the back of his throat at the same time butterflies amped in his gut.

FreckledTwink: _depends. R u ugly? ;)_

He cringed at his own screen name. He probably should’ve at least checked that before Malia signed him up.

IATA: _I’ve been called many things. That’s never been one of them._

_good enough for me. Idk what do u want?_

IATA: _Whatever we both want. I can meet you at your house this evening if you’re available._

Stiles looked around his living room. Cigarettes spilled from his ashtray onto the table. The remote was stuck to the puddle of pop on the table with ants crystalized in the syrup. Paper plates, forks, pizza boxes, empty bottles.

_Could I come to yours instead?_

IATA: _I like to keep all of my possessions, so I don’t generally bring escorts to my home._

_I won’t steal from u._

IATA: _How quaint. Give me your address I’ll be there at 7, unless you have other offers._

Stiles leaned his head back against the couch.

_7 sounds good._

He told him his address then hit Scott’s knee. “Help me clean up. I’ve got someone coming over.”

“No, dude. This place is gross.”

“I’m sorry, I seem to remember a party junior year when someone’s mom came home early and I helped you clean up every room? Ringing any bells?”

Scott rolled his bloodshot eyes and pulled himself up from the couch. “Fine. I’ll get trashbags.”

Stiles started shoving things into one of the bags Scott brought him. They both gagged a few times as they uncovered food that had been left to grow colonies of bacteria.

“Dude, what the fuck? What was this?” Scott asked, holding up a paper plate that had been beneath the couch.

Something was in the center, growing green-gray fuzz like moss. He squinted his eyes. It looked like a caterpillar.

“Cheese? Maybe?”

Scott threw it into the bag. “That’s wrong.”

“Don’t judge me.”

He started to sing under his breath while the bags rustled around them.

“So I’m going to meet Kira’s parents,” Scott said.

“Yeah? Nervous. I’d be nervous. Her dad was a ball buster in high school. Can you imagine the type of chick he’s married to? Jesus, no thanks.”

“We’re getting serious though.”

“That’s great, Scotty,” Stiles said, as he started to tap against his leg. He glanced back and saw Scott drag the plate out from under the couch. “Woah, woah, no. Be careful. That’s all I’ve got.”

He took the plate from Scott’s hands and put it on the kitchen bar beside him, careful not to let the pipe roll off and shatter like his last one.

“Stiles…”

“No, Scott, come on,” Stiles said, not looking at him as he started cleaning off the bar of old mail, old bills, empty cans. “You just came over to get high. You can’t exactly call me out.”

“To smoke weed. This isn’t really the same thing. I mean, you have to know that,” Scott said.

“I guess if you’re a hypocrite. Illegal is illegal.”

“It’s not about it being illegal.”

Stiles laughed as he turned back around, dragging his hand up the back of his hair. He needed to take a shower before the guy came over. He rubbed away the oil on his jeans.  

“I don’t want to argue about this again, come on. Don’t fight with me.”

Scott looked down at the bloated white bag at his feet. “I’m not trying to fight. I’m just worried. Your dad too-.”

“Nope. No. Don’t go there,” Stiles said. “Come on, just help me clean.”

The bags continued to rustle and soon Stiles started talking. He talked until his mouth was dry then he took a drink and kept going.

 

At 6:55, Stiles tapped his foot on his mostly clean carpet. The vacuum was busted, but he’d picked up the big pieces and it was brown, so no one could really see it. He’d wiped down the mismatched coffee and end tables. It smelled like lemons. It didn’t look half bad.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. The last tenant left it. It was a cat with a swinging tail and wide eyes. Its tail began to swish faster and faster as he watched. The second hand drew nearer to twelve then began again. When the cat opened its mouth and meowed, someone knocked on the door.

Stiles got up and almost tripped over his own feet as he put his pipe and plate in the end table.

His heart was pounding like a drum. He almost fell as his toes caught on the step up from the living room to the front door.

“Fucking shit, ow,” he said, looking down at his toe to see if he’d bent the nail.

He stumbled to the door and pulled it open as the person knocked again. The gold knob jiggled in his hand as cold air cut in against his chest.

“What do you want?” he asked, staring at Peter Hale outside of his door.

“It’s good to see you too, Stiles. I’m well, thank you for asking.”

“Well, nice talk, but I’m about to have company, so… see ya,” he said, closing the door.

Peter rapped against it lightly. Stiles rolled his head back and before pulling it open again.

“What?”

“Don’t ever make an ad that says price, _we’ll figure it out_. Nothing says take advantage of me quite like that,” Peter said. “Now may I come in?”

Stiles stood and stared until Peter lifted his brow and put his hand on Stiles’s chin, closing it.

“There we go, much better,” Peter said, pushing open the door farther and stepping inside. His nose wrinkled as he paused behind Stiles. “It stinks in here.”

“I can’t help that your nose is too fucking good.”

“It would make an anosmic want to vomit.”

“What’s that? And don’t be rude, I said we could go to your house. You know who I am now.”

“Someone who can’t smell. And no. I don’t take prostitutes to my house.”

“I’m not a fucking prostitute, asshole,” Stiles said, pushing passed him and going to the kitchen.

“Well, you have an ad on the internet all but saying you will have sex for money. I’m not up with you kids and your slang, but in my day, that made you a whore.”

“Yeah, let the guy who killed his niece judge me.”

“I never said I was judging you. I’ll take a water while you’re in there,” Peter said, walking towards the couch.

Stiles took two glasses, drying on a paper towel and filled them with the dregs of ice at the bottom of the bag in the freezer. He shook off the crystals from his stinging fingers, making them rain down on the counters.

Peter Hale was in his living room.

His life was going to shit. 

He filled the glasses from the tap. The water melted most of it as he walked back into the living room and handed one to Peter.

He looked Peter over from the corner of his eye as he took to the glass. He could do worse. His dick twitched with the warm hazy feeling that lingered.

“So…” Stiles said.

“Sit down.”

Stiles sat at the other end of the couch and picked up the remote to flip it on. “You didn’t seem all that surprised to see it was me.”

“Probably because I wasn’t.”  

“So you just jumped all over the opportunity to fuck me,” Stiles said, smiling at the TV as his dick twitched again. Peter sweating and over his back, fucking him until he shot on the sheets.

“Your friends are talkative.”

“What did they say?” Stiles asked, digging his fingers into his glass and feeling the smile drop from his face. A cartoon Patton rode in a red Corvette on screen. Beside him, a woman with huge tits sat in the passenger seat. They jiggled in the animation. The plastic tail of the cat clock swayed at the corner of his eyes.

“Everyone knows you’re a junkie.”

 “No I’m not.”  

Peter leaned forward and pulled open the end table drawer. He took out the plate and pipe and put it on the table. “Really now?”

“So? That means I have a problem?”

“No actually, but people don’t generally sell their bodies for the fun of it,” Peter said, smiling.

Stiles snorted and stood up, taking the plate and putting it on the kitchen bar. “I don’t need a lecture, alright? Sure as fuck not from you.”

“I didn’t come to lecture. I came to take advantage of an opportunity.”  

Stiles heard him stand then his footsteps. He could’ve moved, but he held very still as Peter’s hands slid around his sides to rest on his stomach. His happy-laced blood rushed southward.

“Don’t answer the door half-naked for a client,” Peter said against his ear. “It makes you look cheap.”

“It’s sure as fuck not going to be cheap for you,” Stiles said.

“Is that so? How much?”

“$900 for the weekend.”

“Oh, I don’t know that I have that much. You really are a pricey piece of ass,” Peter said, kissing lightly down the side of his neck.  

Stiles smiled, looking down at the bar. $900 would keep him going for a few weeks. Get some groceries. A greasy cheeseburger with curly fries and a Rocky Road shake. A fat fucking 8-ball.

“I’ve paid more for jeans,” Peter smacked the side of his head as he walked away. “Change your name too. You’re only going to get old men with tire guts with that.”

 Stiles walked toward Peter and rubbed his stomach. His dick was on a hair-trigger when he was high. That’s all it took to start getting hard.

“It got you.”

Peter turned around quickly enough to bump Stiles into the wall. His eyes flashed iridescent blue in the burned out lighting. His warm fingers brushed over Stiles’s hip, right above the dip between his leg and groin.

“You have three distinctive moles right here,” Peter said, touching them like tapping out a code until his fingertips made a triangle. Then he slid his fingers into the band of Stiles’s jeans and pulled them out. They were lose enough for him to slip his hand inside.

“How’d you know?” Stiles asked as his breath caught in his throat.

His hand was warm, sliding between his thighs to cup his balls and roll them.

“What can I say? I have a thing for _freckled twinks_ ,” Peter said, looking up with his smirk in place.

Stiles laughed slightly. Then Peter’s mouth was on his. His lips were soft and firm, but his hands were hard where they pushed him against the wall. Stiles opened his mouth and kissed him back. His mouth tasted slightly like evergreen. Evergreen and smoke. He opened his breath didn’t stink. He had dry mouth from waiting on the couch. Then Peter kissed back over his cheek and down to his neck before biting loosely.

Stiles bucked his hips against him. Peter’s palm was soft and warm against his hard-on, then he yanked and Stiles's jeans fell off.

“You’re a skeleton,” Peter said, kissing then biting his collarbone.

“And you’re an asshole,” Stiles said as he gripped Peter’s shoulders harder.

He was going to lose his shit. He only took a few hits to level his nerves, but it drove his sensitivity through the roof.

“You’re high as a kite.”

“Thanks, McGruff.”

He took Peter’s wrist and yanked him through to the bedroom. He hadn’t had time to wash anything, but he made the bed. Put all his clothes in his closet floor.

“So what do you want?”

Peter sat on the edge of the bed. Stiles took the hint and undid his belt, pulling down his jeans and taking Peter's dick in his mouth. The high kept him in a nice cushy place with the silky hardness of Peter’s cock in his mouth. He smelled good. His fingers in his hair, on his neck was like tiny pricks of electric. Jolt, jolt. His dick leaked on the carpet under him. He stroked himself sloppily when Peter’s chest started tensing. He grunted around his cock as he came on the carpet. Peter grabbed his hair and pulled him down harder, almost the point of choking him as he came down his throat.

  

When they were wiped up, Stiles leaned back on his couch with his feet folded up beside him. Peter came out of the bathroom and glanced at him, then the TV.

“I’m assuming you have nothing to eat here.”

“I’ve got ramen.”

“As delicious as that sounds, a burger sounds better.”

“Alright. Have fun.”

“Get your clothes on.”

“Why? Aren’t you leaving?”

“That sloppy blow job was cute, but it’s wasn’t $900 worth. Get dressed. I’ll be in my car.”

“I’m not having sex with you in public,” he called after Peter as the door closed.

Stiles pulled himself off the couch and went to get around, trying to ignore the hard hunger pains deep in his gut at the thought of a good meaty burger. Onions. Caramelized. Tomato, avocado. He was getting in Peter’s passenger seat in less than five minutes.

 

“Oh fucking Lord.”

“Good?”

“I’m going to nut myself,” Stiles said, sucking the grease from his fingers in the back of some rundown joint at the edge of town.

“You teenagers with your recovery times,” Peter said, looking across the dive as he took a drink of his coke.

Stiles took the lid off his shake and started to spoon in the chocolatey nutty goodness into his mouth.

“Why didn’t you just get a cone?” Peter asked.

“I like it this way,” Stiles said.

“The point of a shake is you can drink it with a straw.”

“Uh fuck off,” Stiles said, taking another bite. “I can’t suck it through a straw. The nuts get stuck.”

Peter snorted and looked away again. Stiles ignored him and ate until it felt like his stomach was going to pop, then he unbuttoned his jeans beneath the hem of his long hoodie.

“Are you going to eat those?” Stiles asked.

Peter took another fry from his box before putting them on Stiles’s tray.

“How did you end up here?”

“Here, here?” Stiles asked. A piece of fry hit the paper sheet. “Uh, bad luck? I don’t know.”

Peter looked away from the door that his eyes had been glued too and leaned back in the pleather booth. A piece of stuffing came out to cling to his black jacket. He just stared with the half smirk on his face, not really there, but enough for Stiles to see it. Enough for Stiles to get uncomfortable as he chewed, put more fries in his mouth and looked out of the dark windows. All he could see was his reflection. It blacked out his eyes. 

“I don’t know. Haven’t you ever just made bad choices?” Stiles asked.

“Plenty.”

“Okay, well there you go. Bad choices.”

“Do you actually think they’re bad choices?”

“I think the people I think most of think they’re bad choices.”

“What about you?”

Stiles shrugged before dragging his hoodie sleeve under his nose.

“I think they’ve watched too much Dateline. They’ve got it in their heads that everyone who touches it is a methhead whose going to blow themselves up cooking.”

“Or turn into a prostitute.”

Stiles was ready to spit something nasty out about people killing their family or something really witty like that, but he saw Peter was smiling so he just batted his burger wrapper across the table to hit him in the chest. Peter caught it and flicked it too fast for Stiles to stop as it bounced off his forehead.

“Asshole.”

“Whore.”

Stiles couldn’t help the loud laugh out of his mouth. An old couple in the opposite corner looked over at him. A murder was calling him a whore. What the fuck was his life? He didn’t know, but Peter only leaned back with the half smile that wasn’t there, but was. Not an ounce of anything like pity on his face. Stiles blocked his face with his arm and finished laughing while Peter picked up their trays and took them to the trash.

 

When they got back, they watched TV and smoked weed Peter brought.

“Your bong is pink,” Stiles said as the giggles started.

“Yep.”

“It’s so cute,” Stiles said, putting his hand against his mouth to try and stifle the laughter.

“I know. Just adorable.”

He took another hit and started to laugh harder as he coughed up smoke and handed it back.

“It has sparkles. Oh, fuck.”

Peter laughed quieter as Stiles slumped down on the couch and laughed until tears gathered in his eyes. He only stopped when Peter bracketed his hips. The weed wasn’t anything like the crystal high, but it seemed to drag out the little bit he had before Peter show up. It kept him suspended, light and heavy at the same time as they kissed.

He was about to come after about a minute of Peter rubbing him. Then his hand was gripping his balls. That probably shouldn’t have made him buck up into him with a choked off groan, but it made Peter bite his neck and that just sent new shivers.

They went to bed and fucked. It wasn’t nearly as bad as Stiles thought it was going to be. He was high enough that it just felt good. Peter smelled good. He felt good. His body was sexy as hell.

He was weirdly careful.

Then nice and rough, rough enough that all Stiles could think about was skin contact.

“Peter Hale cuddles. I’m telling everyone,” Stiles said as Peter rolled over after to put his arms around him.

Peter squeezed him backwards. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Not usually,” he said groggily as his headspace went floaty.

He had fucked Danny when they were high before, not this kind of high. That guy from the bar, yes. But no, that was rough and that guy was an asshole. Good rebound, though, because all Stiles wanted after was to get away from him.

“You didn’t ask me to wear a condom.”

“Whoops,” Stiles said, slipping towards sleep.

Peter slapped the back of his head. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Stiles slapped down against Peter’s thigh. Then scratched at a scab on his own. Peter pulled away his wrist and held his hand.

“You should get the money before you put out too,” Peter said.

“’kay. No kissing on the mouth either, huh?” Stiles asked, snorting at his own joke before he started to laugh again. “I hate that fucking movie.”

“Go to sleep, Stiles.”

“Movie sucked. _I don’t kiss on the mouth_. Bitch, it’s Richard Gear, kiss him.”

Peter’s back vibrated with a small laugh as Stiles’s voice began to run together. It ended with snoring as he talked himself to sleep.

 

The next morning, Stiles could feel himself dragging towards a crash. His head pounded lightly behind his eye. He’d been puffing at the stuff Danny gave him, but it just meant the exhaustion came on quicker. While Peter showered, Stiles slid down the wall to his four foot by four foot balcony in his hoodie and ski cap. He pulled the gritted smoke into his lungs little by little until blowing it out into the gray air.

Peter came out as he was zoning out, catching the buzz that wouldn’t turn into a high. He had more inside, he should just go big and finish it all off. His mouth watered as he watched Peter light a cigarette. The yellow filter was speckled with white. It looked good against his lips.

The only other person he really knew that he had smoked around was Malia. Peter didn’t look at him strange though, he minded his business with the mixing of smoke.

“Can I have a drag?” Stiles asked.

Peter handed him the cigarette and Stiles chased the fiberglass burn with the softer smoke before handing it back.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

He stared at Peter in the mellow overcast light while the cold wind brought snow that wouldn’t stick. A few balconies over, he could hear a mother cussing at her kid. The kid was crying. Someone’s radio was playing too loudly. It was ten in the morning.

“You’re the first person who hasn’t given me shit in a long time, you know that?”

“You’re a kid.”

Stiles laughed as he tapped out ashes on the concrete. “Then what does that make you?”

Peter laughed, looking over the low iron of Stiles’s railing. “I don’t know, Stiles. What do you think it makes me?”

“A pervert.”

Peter looked towards him and snorted a small laugh when he saw Stiles smiling.

“Have you seen anyone jump from these?” Peter asked, looking down at the thick concrete pad below.

“I’ve actually heard a few people threaten it. I’ve only been here a year, though. Give it time.”

 

“Did you need to do anything today?” Peter asked.

“Nah, I can barely move. My ass is dragging,” Stiles said, laying on the couch and staring at the TV.

“Mm, come down. Wonderful,” Peter said.

Stiles looked at Peter as he made himself a glass of pop. Stiles had no idea where he found pop, but he put another glass in front of Stiles on the coffee table. He pulled up his knees so Peter could sit at the other end.

“Sorry, I could go get around if you wanted to go do something,” Stiles said.

“You mean you could go smoke enough to function.”

Stiles shrugged. 

“Well I have nothing to do, so you’re fine,” Peter said.

He took a laptop from a bag Stiles hasn’t seen him bring in. There was a small duffle bag by the island. He never saw him bring that in. He must’ve gone out when he was napping earlier. He didn’t think he crashed that hard. Soft music started to play. 

“Mozart?” he asked.

“Mhm,” Peter said.

That’s the last thing Stiles remembered as he fell asleep.

 

When he woke up, a take-out salad was pushed into his hands. There was pizza on the table. He hurried to eat then blew Peter as he finished eating his own slice of pizza. The smell of garlic and butter was so rich. He wanted to eat the entire box. Maybe the cardboard too. His head hurt. His mouth was dry. Peter wrapped his spit slick hand around his own cock and stroked a few times before Stiles started sucking again with the extra lube. It tasted like Canadian bacon.

He managed to find enough coffee grounds for a pot of coffee. He drank the pot black with the milk clotting in the fridge and the sugar gone. He remembered passing the bag back and forth with Malia, losing most of it in the carpet as they watched Spongebob a few weeks ago, so high the ceilings looked like they moved.

“Does coffee help?” Peter asked.

“Kind of,” he lied. “Do you want to play Mario Kart or something?”

“Why not?”

Stiles took Peter’s remote as they sat on the floor, leaned against the couch, making another dent in Peter’s stash. He made Peter Princess Peach. Peter pushed him over as Stiles laughed. His Yoshi sat at the start line as the others lapped him as he tried to pull himself together on the floor.

When the remotes died, they stayed on the floor and stared at the TV. He heard Peter’s high laugh and giggled himself. It was so fucking cute. Stiles couldn’t remember the joke on screen, but he remembered Peter laughing, really laughing into the back of his hand until his eyes beaded with water.

He scooted in against Peter and leaned backwards against him. Peter put his arm around his shoulder, his hand on his chest as he ate another slice of luke-warm pizza.

“You had a boyfriend in high school, didn’t you?” Peter asked.

“Mhm. Danny.”

“What happened to him?” Peter asked as his fingers dragged lazily over Stiles’s t-shirt.

“He went to college, but we were broken up before that.”

“Drugs?”

“Nah, it wasn’t working way before that. Maybe not way before, but before.”

“What about your girlfriend?”

“Malia? She wasn’t my girlfriend. Fuckbuddies, if that. She made my profile.”

“What a wonderful friend to have.”

Stiles tilted his head back harder into Peter’s shoulder as his eyes grew heavier. His headache was coming back. He picked up the water between Peter’s legs and took a drink.

“She isn’t bad.”

“Did she get you started?”

Stiles stared at the TV as his mind wandered. He could almost hear the stupid party, the end of the summer after senior year. Music. Lydia Martin kissing Jackson Whitmore. Danny wearing his Yale shirt. Kira and Scott wrapped around each other. 

“Kind of,” he said, staring at the TV.

He remembered the pipe she gave him behind the garage when she asked if he wanted to get high and he thought she meant weed.

“Has she ever been to jail?”

Stiles nodded. He remembered when his dad caught her in his room. Fucking around in the middle of the afternoon. The pipe on the desk.

“I think my dad put her on a list or something. Parrish caught her a few weeks after my dad found out, solicitation and enough crystal to book her for distribution.

“So you see your friend go to jail for prostitution and distribution and something made you say, that’s the career path for me.”

Stiles laughed slightly, rolling on his side towards Peter. “It’s not that simple. You know it.”

“It’s as simple as you wanting crystal meth and not having money for it.”

“Don’t get on your high horse with me,” Stiles said, laying back again. “You’re such a fucking saint I forgot.”

“I’m also not an intelligent 21 year old.”

“You think I’m intelligent?”

“I used to think you were,” Peter said, looking at the ceiling. “But you’ve always been an idiot.”

Stiles stared at the TV, but couldn’t really say anything about what was on. His eyes were heavy. He just knocked the flat of his hand against Peter’s stomach lightly. Peter didn’t stop trailing his fingers over his chest.

 

When they went to bed, Stiles pulled Peter down and kissed him hungrily in the dark. His catnaps had given him some energy and being so close all day, it drove his libido through the roof. He kissed Peter again and again as they stripped of their clothes. Peter’s mouth was fucking delicious.

He rode Peter and Peter leaned up to put him in his lap, his arms around his back. Stiles pushed down and gasped into his mouth at the depth.

“Does it hurt?” Peter asked.

Stiles shook his head. 

His body was so warm. This wasn’t bad at all. He was going to get paid for this. For riding Peter Hale’s fucking lap and tasting him, for dragging his fingers up the sweat on his back. For smoking his weed and eating burgers with him. He kissed Peter deeper and worked his hips against him.

“I don’t think I like myself very much,” Stiles blurted out with his eyes closed as his mind buzzed.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Peter said, tightening his fingers on his hips and pulling him down closer. “None of us like ourselves very much.”

Stiles laughed quietly, opening his eyes to Peter’s only inches away. “You could’ve fooled me.”

“It’s called being an adult.”

Peter pushed him back onto the bed and kissed him. Stiles wrapped his ankles around his back and arched to get him to hit his prostate again and again. He was slamming electric through his spine, making him grip tighter and go limp in alternating seconds.  

“How do you do that?” Stiles asked in each hard breath.

“How do I do what?” Peter asked as he thrust against him.

“Act like an adult.”

“Can we not talk about this right now?”

“Oh, yeah, sure thing, I’ll just-.”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Peter said, leaning down to kiss him harder and deeper.

Stiles kissed him back, breathing in the smell of clean sweat and soap. Smoke and stale ashes. The faint sweet pine smell of Peter’s skin in his running nose.

 

When they laid in the dark, the noise of sirens rang outside. A police car parked down the street with its lights flashing through the glass doors of the balcony. They shone on the popcorn ceiling and Stiles wondered if it was his dad as the sound was turned off the colors continued to flash. The ceiling disappeared for a long moment until Stiles opened his eyes again.

“What would you do if your kid was like me?” Stiles asked quietly.

His tongue was becoming stupid again. Slow, lazy. Like his mind.

“I'd lock them in a freezer.”

"You're such a fuck up." Stiles laughed quietly and closed his eyes again before forcing them back open. “He threatened to tie me to my bed.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles said. “I kind of wish he had.”

Peter laughed, a sarcastic bark of a noise in the dark. Maybe the weed had mellowed it. It sounded nice.

“He would if you asked him to, you know that.”

“He did put me in handcuffs once,” Stiles said. “He caught me, like literally caught me in the act of cutting it up on one of my mom’s plates. He grabbed me off my bed and slammed me to the ground, handcuffed me, and pulled me down the stairs. Then he threw me in the backseat and drove to the station while I was bawling in the backseat. He pulled up in front of the station and opened the door. I still don’t know if he meant to drag me in. I really don’t. I don’t think he knew either.”

_Don’t make me do this to you, Stiles. Don’t fucking make me do this to you, son._

He could still see the lights reflection on the water in his dad’s eyes, how red his face was as he spit the words out between his teeth.

“He didn’t, though. He undid the cuffs and hugged me until I stopped crying.”

“Then what happened?”

“I moved out the next day.”

The police lights continued to flash far below, painting his walls in alternating colors. The silent whine of it built with this heartbeat in his ears and it seemed he could hear it. He could feel the switch in his dad’s cruiser when he was seven, hear the consuming sound of it as his dad let him hit it on his lap in the parking lot behind the station. He could remember the smell of the cruiser, the feel of his laughter against his back as he feel asleep with cum tacking between the cheeks of his ass.

 

He woke up a few hours later and went into the bathroom with the last of his stash and turned on the fan in the ceiling. It was too fucking cold to go out on the balcony, so he sank down on the closed toilet and smoked what he had left.

 

“Stiles! Hey, wake up, right now. Stiles!”

Stiles opened his eyes. The walls were fuzzy. He lifted his hand and dragged it over the wallpaper. The flowers looked like they moved under his fingers.

“Hey, look at me,” Peter said, grabbing his t-shirt collar.

“Th’ fuck’s your problem?” Stiles asked.

Peter smiled. His sharp canines were so white against his skin. “What is my problem? That’s great. You’re passed out on your bathroom floor with a crack pipe in your hand, but I have the problem.”

“’S not even, just a little, kind of.”  

His forehead touched the wallpaper. It was so soft. He should sleep here more. The floor was cold, the toilet was right there. His bed couldn’t be any softer than this rug.

“Stiles,” Peter said, shaking him. “You are not going to OD while I’m here. I’m not explaining why I was with the sheriff’s son.”

OD? He wasn’t going to OD. Peter was fucking stupid. Fucking stupid Peter.

“Son of a bitch!” he said, scrambling backwards and finding no holds.

He gasped for breath and choked on icy water hitting his face and chest. The tub slipped beneath his hands. His head smacked against the plastic edge. The shower head was too close, right in his face. How the fuck did he get in the goddamn bathtub?

“Good, you’re back,” Peter said.

The water shut off. The sink chugged as the tub drained. Stiles clutched the edge and sucked in hard lungfuls of air, trembling. His clothes were so heavy. His t-shirt weighed down his chest. He clawed at the wet cotton and hit his knee against the faucet as he tried to stand. The shampoo hit the toilet before clattering to the floor.

“Hey, Stiles,” Peter said, gripping his arms as Stiles tried to breath while his lungs became smaller.

“Can’t,” he said as cold sweat broke out against the freezing water. “Can’t, air.”

“Calm down,” Peter said as he pulled Stiles up by his wet shirt until he was sitting in the middle of the tub.

He yanked the heavy fabric over his head. Stiles world went black as it caught on his chin. His nails caught his chin as he tried to pull it off. Pain rocked up his face then it was gone and he could see Peter right in front of him.

“Stiles,” Peter said, holding his face. “You’re fine. You’ll be just fine, but you have to stay calm. Can you do that? Can you stay calm for me?”

“Can’t. I can’t breathe.”

“If you couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t talk.”

His tears were burning against his cold face as his jaw trembled.

“Okay, now you’re just holding your breath,” Peter said, “Look at me. Now breathe out. Good. In…”

Stiles stared at Peter’s eyes. They were blue. He listened to his voice as he shook and slowly his mind caught up with his body and he realized he was breathing.

 

Sunday morning, Stiles stood by the door while Peter pulled on his jacket.

“So, uh I get if you don’t want to pay for last night. Blow job on the house,” Stiles said, laughing slightly and rubbing beneath his nose to stop the snot. “But uh if want a redo sometime, that’d be good.”

“I left a check with your landlord,” Peter said as he pulled on his scarf.

“What?” Stiles blurted as Peter reached for the doorknob. He grabbed his arm. “No, Peter, come on, man. It was a cash deal.”

“I’m not giving you money.”

“Peter, what the fuck?” Stiles asked loudly. “That was the deal!”

“That was before you overdosed on your bathroom floor.”

“No, Peter, come on.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Peter said. “I paid up your rent. You were a month behind. That was $1,000. The man was going to kick you out next week.”

“I was going to take care of it! I did a job, you should’ve paid me how I wanted to be paid!”

“Call the police, then,” Peter said, opening the door then looking back. He looked him up and down while wind cut through the open door until his nipples were rock hard. “I thought they were exaggerating, but you're pissing everything away.”

“Get out.”

“I’m going.”

Stiles slammed the door behind him with his hands already shaking.

“Son of a bitch!”

He sank to the floor against the door as his head pounded like it was going to rip open.

 

The crash started that night. Passing out. Hardly being able to drag himself from the couch to the sink for water, to the bathroom. He would’ve pissed himself on the couch if he thought his stomach could handle the stench. He might have a little bit anyway.

He puked and nothing came out, but stringy bile. He texted Peter at nine in the morning on Tuesday as he sat in the corner beside his bookcase, because it was the darkest place in the apartment.

_Whatever u want. $75._

Peter: _No._

_$50_

Peter: _Still no._

_$25?_

Peter: _That’s just pathetic._

Stiles went lower and Peter stopped replying. He fell asleep against the wall with the phone in his hand.

 

The sound of his phone ringing came through like a bullhorn. Stiles grabbed for it on the bedside table and heard something thin shatter. He jerked upright and saw his good pipe in pieces on the floor.

“Son of a bitch,” he said.

His phone busted the silence as he picked it up. His dad’s name lit up the screen.

“Hey,” he said, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.

“Come downstairs. I picked up a few things for you.”

“You didn’t have to,” Stiles said, feeling his words tumble over themselves on his drugged tongue.

“Get out of bed and come down here.”

The phone clicked and Stiles fell back against the mattress. When his eyelids dipped too heavily, he forced himself out of bed. God fucking knows he didn’t want his dad coming into the apartment. He almost pulled on his sleep pants, but kicked them away and pulled on a pair of jeans by the door. Then he grabbed his hoodie and pulled it on with his beanie over his hair that was probably fucking disgusting.

The concrete of the sidewalk was cold. His dad was leaning against his cruiser by the curb. He glanced down at Stiles’s feet and frowned, before he came forward and Stiles hugged him.

“You look like hell.”

“I know. I think I’m coming down with something,” Stiles said, sniffing and wiping beneath his nose to catch the snot before it fell.

His dad frowned at him, so Stiles looked down at his feet then down the street until he heard the cruiser’s door open. The rustle of plastic, then his dad was pressing sacks into his hands.

“I didn’t know what you needed, so, here,” he said.

Stiles took the sacks. He could see milk, bread, and eggs with other things. His stomach growled like he was starving. Then a bag of ice was freezing against his arm.

“Thanks a lot,” he said. “I know how much you hate to shop.”

His dad hugged him again, patting his shoulder as Stiles’s hands hung by his sides, loaded with groceries.

“Do me a favor and go take a shower,” John said before he kissed the edge of Stiles’s knit cap.

Stiles made himself laugh as he pulled away. “Yeah, alright.”

His dad looked at him again, his large calloused hand on his neck before he pecked him on the head again. He walked around the front of his car and got in. Stiles watched him until the cruiser turned the corner.

When he got back inside, he sat on the groceries on the floor in the kitchen. He opened the fridge door and looked in. Copious amounts of shit lined the shelves. Something smelled like rotted ass. A plastic container was lined with green. The milk had a ring around the edge.

He let the door close as he walked back to the living room.

He laid down on the couch and set an alarm on his phone for fifteen minutes. He tossed it on the floor before he rolled over and passed out again.

 

When he woke up again, it was dark outside. He forced himself off the couch and walked through the kitchen as his bladder throbbed, trying to rub the exhaustion from his face. He jerked when he stepped in a puddle on the floor.

The bag of ice his dad bought was laying near the counter, mostly water with an iceberg in the center, seeping under the counters and the other sacks.

“Son of a bitch,” he said hazily as he squatted down to pull out what he could.

The bread was half soggy. The boxes of Nutty Buddies and cereal were soggy, but otherwise they were fine. He tossed everything he could salvage against the far wall.

“Alright, it’s alright, everything’s mostly good,” he said to himself under his breath.

He put his hand into one of the last bags and felt cold thickness on his fingers. He pulled out the circle container and stared at the chocolate oozing from beneath the lid of the Rocky Road container in his hands. He pulled off the lid and looked at the nut and marshmallow soup inside.

The effort in his legs went away as he fell back on his ass in the ice water. Dirt on his feet was turning to mud on the hairy linoleum. Chocolate tacked his fingers together. Then he chunked the container against the cabinets in front of him. His head pounded so hard he could see black around his vision as chocolate ran down the cabinets. 

 

Stiles: _I need money._

Malia: _Come to this party. U’ll make some._

Stiles tried to hold his eyes open in the shower as he scrubbed himself until his skin was red before putting on the cleanest clothes he could find.

 

The party was in a rundown two-story with three Rottweilers chained in the backyard that barked every time Stiles went out to take a piss. He drank cowboy cool-aid from a mug shaped like cookie monster’s head until his head was spinning.

The guy was older. He kept giving Stiles fuck-me eyes across the living room. He was older than his dad. He cringed every time he trailed his bony fingers over his hips and his beer gut grazed his back.

“Let me fuck you?” he asked near Stiles ear while Eminem blared.

“$200.”

“$100.”

“$150.”

“Sold,” Stiles said as the guy’s hand closed over his wrist.

 

Stiles’s ass felt swollen as he did his belt. The old man coughed across the bed as he zipped his jeans and went towards the door.

“Hey, wait, you didn’t pay,” Stiles said, following him.

“Put it on my tab,” the guy said, smiling as he started to slip out of the door.

“What the fuck. No, listen to me asshole,” Stiles said, grabbing the guy’s arm then going still as something cold and hard stung his chest.

“It was fun, now go get your cash somewhere else,” the man said, stepping away.

Stiles looked down at the bead of blood that welled against his chest from the small puncture above his heart. With his hands shaking, he went to the other side of the bed and grabbed his clothes and shoes as he went down the stairs and out to his Jeep.

 

Stiles wiped his hands on his jeans as he drove towards his apartment. It layered with half dried passes and stuck his jeans to his thighs. His ass throbbed against the seat. Then his Jeep lurched. The temperature gauge was fine. It lurched again, then the RPMs dropped.

“No, come on,” Stiles said, slamming his hand against the wheel, “Come on!”

The red needle of his gas gauge rested against the yellow back light of E.

“Fuck!”

He got out, slamming the door with the noise ringing back from silent buildings. His legs felt like they were crawling with ants. A headache built behind his left eye. His nose was running. His ass hurt. It actually hurt really bad. His hands were shaking.

He pulled out his phone and nearly dropped it on the quiet street. It was 3:27. No one was awake. His eyes started to blur until the squirrel on his background became a log with a tail. His throat shook around an inhale.

He had no money. He just got fucking raped, because he was a fucking idiot. His head hurt. His skin felt like it was crawling. He wanted to dig in his nails and tear until it stopped. He was out of gas. At 3:27 in the morning. The red light beeped on his phone.

“Seriously?” he asked as he crumbled to sit on the curb.

He opened his phone and hovered above his dad’s number. The low battery warning flashed again. He hit call and closed his eyes as it rang.  

“Stiles?” his dad asked obviously just waking up and sounding worried.

“Dad,” he said. His breathing hitched through his nose as he tried to speak around his tears. “Dad, I just...”

“Stiles, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Cop voice. Dad voice. He didn’t know there was a difference.

“I just…,” he said as his voice cracked. “Could you come help me? Please.”  

 

Twenty minutes later, red and blue flashed on the brick building across from him. They made no noise as the cruiser pulled up behind his Jeep. The door closed in the quiet and his dad’s boots thudded until he was kneeling in front of him in the gutter, touching his numb face.

“Are you okay?”

Stiles looked at his dad in the harsh flashing colors. His eyes stung again.

“I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me,” Stiles said.

Stiles's hands were stuck in his front hoodie pocket as his dad hugged him tightly. He just let some sweaty nasty fuck bend him over in someone’s bed. He was coming down and starting to withdraw and his dad hugged him like it didn't even matter.

“I’m sorry,” he said against his dad’s coat. “I’m so fucking sorry. I’m such a fuck up.”

“It’s okay, son. I’ve gotcha.”   

It felt like Stiles was drowning in snot and tears as his dad hugged him harder.

 

Rehab was hell.

 Everything hurt, down to his fucking bones. His hair. The sheets touching his skin. He slept and couldn’t sleep. He was exhaust and could just turn and turn until his clothes were plastered to his skin with sweat. He couldn’t remember much.

He remembered the pain. The screaming and the nurses. And he remembered his dad off and on, sitting and reading to him. Sometimes his strong arms around him as the sweat soaked his skin and into John’s shirt. Him petting the back of his sweat-soaked hair and rocking him from the edge of the bed.

“I’ve gotcha. Daddy’s gotcha, buddy.”

He listened to him mumbling Neil Young under his breath. The songs his mom used to sing while he fell asleep. He could remember her smile while she touched his hair and sang it. It was amplified through the chamber of dad’s chest where Stiles’s ear was pressed.

_Don’t let it bring you down.  
It’s only castles burning_

Stiles tightened his hand in his dad’s t-shirt and listened to him hum and only sing bits and pieces as he shook.  _  
_

 

When the worst of the withdraw symptoms stopped, his friends came by. Scott came by himself, then he came back the next day with Kira. They played Phase 10 on his narrow bed. His nose still ran and his fingers still shook. Derek came by. Stiles almost shit himself when he saw the guy standing in his doorway with his dark look. He gave him a Coke and a package of Snickers and wouldn’t sit when Stiles asked him to.

“I’m glad you finally pulled your head out of your ass,” Derek said.

Then he was gone.

Malia wasn’t allowed.

“If I see her around you again I’ll make sure she goes to prison, I swear, Stiles,” his dad said.

When he saw himself in a mirror for the first time, really looked at himself, he almost puked chocolate pudding and fruit cocktail. He touched his face in the mirror and felt the dip from his cheekbone to his cheek against his fingertips. His eyes were sank so deeply it looked like he’d be busted in the face. 

Thank God his teeth were still white. The dentist said he wouldn’t have to lose any of them. Not yet. They were putting Neosporin on a crack sore he’d clawed by his mouth. They said it might scar. He didn’t see how it wouldn’t. There were a few on his thighs.

“Stop picking.”

Stiles looked back at his door from the window he’d been staring at. He stilled his fingers on the scab by his mouth. He smiled at Peter in the doorway.

“I didn’t expect to see you.”

“Why not? It’s a family joint.”

“Yeah, so do I get the friend discount?” Stiles asked. 

“Let’s take a walk.”

Stiles walked out of the room with Peter with his hands tucked into his jeans. The nurses turned thousand watt smiles on Peter as they passed. He smiled back at them and Stiles’s stomach bubbled faintly. He didn’t hallucinate that part apparently. 

They walked out of the doors to the lawn and Peter led him over a big oak tree at the top of the slope. Peter pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and handed one to Stiles then lit it for him.

“Damn I needed that,” Stiles said slumping back against the tree trunk while he slowly exhaled.

Peter smiled with his eyes catching the light. “You look better.”

“Bullshit. I look like a fucking corpse,” Stiles said around the filter.

“Like I said, better.”

“Well damn, you just know the way to a man’s heart,” Stiles said, batting his eyelashes before snorting out the warm velvety smoke. Just the act make him want the coarser smoke of his pipe. The cutting grain roughing up his throat.

“So really,” Stiles said, shifting his weight before making himself hold Peter’s eyes. “What kind of break can you give me for being in here? I know my dad can’t afford this shit.”

“That isn’t something you need to worry about.”

“I need to know if I’m going to have to sell my kidney, or come over to your house and sell one of yours.”

Peter laughed, “You’ve got a little sadistic streak.”

“It’s why you like me.”

“True.”

Stiles looked down with a small smile as his face heated. He hadn’t really expected Peter to admit it.

“It's taken care of.”

“Peter, no come on.”

“I think the correct response is, thank you, Peter. You’re too kind.”

Stiles laughed slightly and glanced up at Peter. He wondered if he knew how gorgeous he was, really. Not the cocky bastard way, but really. If he knew that he was about fifty times sexier right then, slightly unsure and trying not to show it, because he was being a good man and it was foreign to him.

“Thanks. Thank you. Really.”

“What’s the point of my family owning a rehabilitation center if my friends can’t use it?”

“Friends, huh?”

“Friends, prostitute, we’re splitting hairs,” Peter said.

Stiles laughed again and snubbed out the cigarette against the unnaturally green grass before putting it into his pocket.

“I know this isn’t easy, Stiles,” Peter said, his voice slipping to something more serious. “Stay as long as you need.”

“How many times did you come here?” Stiles asked.

“Once when I was 16, then 19, and 23.”

“What for?”

“Heroine, coke, meth, prescriptions, alcohol. My family had money and I was an excellent liar. There’s a reason my family had a rehab center.”

“Were you the only one?”

“No, Talia, another sister and my father all came at different times. Derek once for a few weeks when he was 16. Alcohol.”

“Fuck.”

“But look what you can aspire to,” Peter said, smiling and gesturing to himself.

Stiles smiled slightly. “I’ll keep that in mind, because right now I feel like beating my head against a wall.”

“I know.”

They stood on the hill, Stiles leaned against the tree, and Peter a few feet away. They watched some teenagers skip rocks on the still surface of a pond surrounded by cattails. The boy was smitten with the girl. They kept laughing and pushing lightly at each other. He could see them blushing from here.

“Could we maybe, could I maybe, call you when I get out of here?”

Peter nodded. “I’d like that, but until then, do you want to go play Strip Poker in your room?”

Stiles laughed and watched Peter smile, the whiteness of his teeth. Still just as handsome as his druggy mind thought. There were still burbles of butterflies. Then he was in front of him and they fluttered more, quieter. They said his dopamine levels had to come back by themselves after he’d had them so jacked up for so long. He was still so damn heady. Peter fucking Hale.

Maybe it was fight-or-flight response. Maybe it was because of the bright flash of blue before they settled to the natural shade of normal. He tilted up Stiles’s chin then kissed him, hardly parting his lips, hardly touching their tongues together. Then his eyes were closed, his hand still on his chin as the leaves rippled quietly above them and he heard the girl down at the pond giggle.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Peter said quietly.

“Never pictured you for the sentimental type,” Stiles teased quietly even as his butterflies beat their muffled wings harder.

“Don’t get used to it,” Peter said, pulled his shoulder until they walked back to the building with their hands brushing against each other occasional, like shots of heat in the cold.  

**Author's Note:**

> Pop over and say hi on Tumblr if you want :) [Here](http://tridom.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated. <3


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